


Worth A Thousand Words

by Asidian



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Bittersweet Ending, Coping, Friendship, Gen, Loneliness, Loss, Nostalgia, Photographs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-25
Updated: 2017-01-25
Packaged: 2018-09-19 19:20:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9457037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asidian/pseuds/Asidian
Summary: Some nights, when the moon is high and the stars are out – when Prompto can't stand to be alone in the dark – he puts on every light in the little room he rents out back of Cindy's garage, and he lays his photos on the scruffy kitchen table.He puts them in order, sets them all out in a row. It's not long before he runs out of table, and then he puts them on the floor instead, one by one, like stepping stones to a place he can't reach anymore.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers.
> 
> The pictures broke my heart. This game broke my heart.
> 
> ....and because I am dumb and had to for a title like this one, this fic is exactly a thousand words.

Some nights, when the moon is high and the stars are out – when Prompto can't stand to be alone in the dark – he puts on every light in the little room he rents out back of Cindy's garage, and he lays his photos on the scruffy kitchen table.

He puts them in order, sets them all out in a row. It's not long before he runs out of table, and then he puts them on the floor instead, one by one, like stepping stones to a place he can't reach anymore.

They trail out to the cot he sleeps in, and they turn. They skirt the edge of his beat-up couch. They travel below the window, where outside he can see that the moon is bright and the stars are high and clear and peaceful.

They go all the way back, like some shining crystal path in a kid's fairytale, leading on and on until the hero reaches the place he needs to be.

When he places the last one down, there in its line, his fingers hesitate to pull away; they toy with the dog-earred corner. Then he begins, as he always does, at the end.

Snap: It's Noct, in the warm glow of firelight, face too thin and scruffy with a half-grown beard. His hair's gotten longer, and there are lines by his eyes, even when he's smiling. But he _is_ smiling, that rare, fond moment of unguarded expression captured on film.

Snap: Only half of Prompto's face is in the foreground, freckles and ill-conceived wisp of a goatee barely in focus. Behind him, Gladio's poking at the fire with a stick and Noct's reaching up to take a plate of food from Ignis. It's one of those terrible fried sandwiches he loves so much.

Snap: The foreboding metal walls of Niflheim seem as hard and unforgiving as they still are in his nightmares. An imp is crawling up into the frame, and Noct's raised one hand to force it back, father's sword held above him like a torch to ward off darkness.

Snap: The long, lonely lines of a train's interior swallow up the picture. It's in black and white, and the light filtering in from the windows make the outlines stark and uncomfortable. No one is in the shot.

Snap: The sun's bright on the glittering water of Altissia. Pillars rise up to cradle statues with elegant, graceful forms. In the foreground, Ignis has one hand on Gladio's elbow. They're leaning in close, looking into a shop window where glossy copper cookware is on display.

Snap: The ocean races away like a promise, wide and deep blue. Cid's at the helm, his lined face gruff despite the smile that tugs at his lips. Noct is leaning out over the side of the boat, pointing at something in the water.

Snap: Prompto's face appears again, still slightly out of focus, now ten years younger. He's grinning wide and pleased, and one of his arms is draped around Noct's shoulders. Noct is wearing one of his peculiar half-smiles – not quite flat, not quite amused. Behind them, the sea stretches all the way to Angelgard, a vague suggestion of a shape on the horizon.

Snap: Iris is riding a chocobo, eyes wide, mouth a delighted o of surprise. She's leaning too far to the right, and Gladio races alongside her, only one hand on the reins – ready to catch her, if she needs it.

Snap: In the lantern light, Ignis' face is smooth and unmarked – high cheekbones, firm set to his lips, brow furrowed in concentration. Below him, on the cutting board, are partially chopped oranges, the sticky-sweet juice of them spilling out in a trail. His eyes are very green.

Snap: Noct's sleeping against his chocobo, curled in a nest of feathers. His mouth is open, just a little; his head is tipped back, exposing the line of his throat. He's only got his t-shirt on, but someone's thrown his jacket over the top of him, like a makeshift blanket.

Snap: The outlook at Lestallum is breathtaking, mountains hazy in the distance. Gladio's got his arms out to either side, bracketing them all, resting on three different sets of shoulders. They're leaning against one another, all of them, like the parts of a patchwork quilt – like the photo won't make sense unless they do.

Snap: Noct's got his fishing rod in his hands. He's a silhouette against the glass-smooth water at Galdin Quay. The sky's a deep, empyrean blue, and Noct's hair is a crown above his head, wind-swept and artless.

Snap: The table at Takka's Pit Stop is full. There are four bowls of jambalaya, and a pile of paper napkins. This time, the half of Prompto's face that's in the frame is in focus, and he's laughing, so hard his eyes are squeezed shut in delight. Noct's leaning on one hand, starting to list forward – falling asleep mid-meal. Behind him, Ignis' smile is a soft curl of amusement. Gladio's reaching over with one hand already, grinning, to shake the prince awake.

That’s the last picture he has.

It shouldn't be the end of them, Prompto knows. There should be one more.

He remembers it well enough – the four of them in the afternoon sun, jostling for the best poses against the sleek lines of a car that's been in the scrap heap for fifteen years now.

He doesn't have that one anymore.

Instead, he lingers on what remains. He always gets a little stuck, here at the beginning, throat tight and eyes burning.

Their faces seem unbearably young. There's so much optimism in them that it hurts to see – so much blind faith, as though nothing can possibly go wrong.

He likes to end here, with these boys who don’t know what the future holds. And when the dawn comes, the rosy-golden glow of it creeping through the windows to chase away the darkness, Prompto gathers up his photos with reverent hands to say goodbye again.


End file.
